


Excerpts From A Found Family That Need Counseling

by rainonmyback



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst and Humor, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Drama, Family Feels, Feelings Realization, Gay Character, Gender Dysphoria, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character, also fuck how canon works ITS MY CITY NOW, idk how to tag, idk it's gonna be a LOT, im not gonna lie there's not much shipping in this just little sprinkles, in some ways..., none of these dudes are.......like....stable, selectively mute pyro, trauma in general tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback
Summary: Miss Pauling hated her job.Okay, maybe nothated.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 80





	1. Prologue / Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> okay yall, this is gonna be a loooooong journey! i hope u enjoy, and feedback is appreciated! :-)

Miss Pauling hated her job.

Okay, maybe not  _ hated _ . Hate is a strong word, afterall. But, more than less of the time, she felt like a glorified intern. Instead of coffee runs, she did bodybag runs. Doesn’t have as nice of a ring to it. 

She also has to associate with and interact with rather strange people. Usually erratic oddballs, who have the skills to slaughter and maim, and more batshit crazy than you can put into human words. These men are perfect for...well, whatever this really is.  _ Is it a bad sign that she can’t really describe her occupation? I mean, what the hell would you put on a resume? _

  
  


You’d think with being a young woman herself, she’d fear having to see and talk to these guys, and at first, she did. There comes a natural paranoia, sure, but eventually, it was easier to warm up to them. Though they kill, and talk nonsense, and  _ annoy _ the living shit out of her, they also intrigue. 

Jane Doe, also known as  _ The Soldier _ , is completely enveloped in his own delusions. He rambles about the hellscapes of war, of seeing friends and foes bleed out, of the victorious fire inside of him when he made it back home to the good ol’ red, white and blue. All the medals he’s collected, every tour he’s served. It’s a story, obviously. Of the fiction kind, most definitely. Hell, she doesn’t even think he’s old enough to have served in the Korean War, much let alone World War 2. Still, it would be kind of cruel to rip that facade away from him, so she plays along. 

_ “Soldier, I got a job for you. Head out, son!” _

_ “Soldier, you deserve another medal for this win.” _

_ “At ease, Soldier. Mission accomplished.” _

  
  
  


The peculiar, often unsettling, Dr. Ludwig, also known as  _ The Medic, _ always greets her kindly. Or, well, politely at least. He keeps busy, seemingly all the time. Experiments, tests,  _ practice runs _ he sometimes calls it. Horrors that would make a normal civilian shriek into a coma, for sure. Miss Pauling isn’t all that squeamish, so when Medic hands her a severed tongue as she tries to talk to him about battle strategies, she can’t really flinch. Though, tongues are rather gross.  _ Bluegh.  _

He’s got a charm to him, wafting his hands as he talks, humming to his bird, Archimedes. Miss Pauling can’t say he’s completely heartless  _ (soulless is still debatable, though) _ . She’s even seen him give Archimedes a lovely oatmeal bath. So, through all of the Frankenstien schemes and absolute atrocities against God, at least he’s got a silver of heart. Probably stored in that fridge of his. Though, sometimes she wonders if he’ll snap and stitch everyone together via human centipede style. 

Then there’s Jeremey, also known as  _ The Scout. _ He’s...well,  _ uh, _ not subtle. Reminds Miss Pauling of the boys she went to highschool with; awkward, tryhard-ish, not that good at washing his hands. But, there’s good in there, through the goofiness. He’s allowed to be at least a little bit cocky--the guy’s fast as all Hell, and usually gets the job done in no time. Good player, and sometimes,  _ sometimes _ his jokes land. You can’t really help it, but you’ll probably laugh with him anyways. Or at him. Whatever works. 

He’s into her, no doubt about that. Gets twitchy when she smiles and voice cracks at her questions. Smart, in his own way--which is  _ not insulting,  _ it just means…

He’s got his own way of doing things. Good at reading maps, and can scrap up good wing sauce when he tries. Also, a pretty good artist. Miss Pauling’s never quite seen his full portfolio. Just some sketches that he’s forgotten to put away before she arrived, quickly snatched and tucked into his pockets before she can get a good look. But she always liked the colors. 

Dell Conager, also known as  _ The Engineer _ , country boy at his finest. Texas raised. Southern drawl thick and warm, like summer honey. A man you could have a drink with. Working hands, firm and steady. He’s very approachable, probably the easiest to approach out of the gang. Knows how to strum out a tune, usually after a long, hard day. He’s also, like the others, a killer. He can create horrifyingly efficient things, machines that’ll kill you before you can even say  _ Oh shit! _ And he’ll eat a nice, fat steak, not even thinking about the blood he’s shed. 

He’s good at cards. Particularly blackjack. Lots of metaphors with that one. Southern charisma. Miss Pauling thinks her grandmother would love him. Y’know, before finding out that he’s a mass murderer, capable of killing hundreds in a mere week, all without getting off of his ass. 

Impressive, she’s gotta admit. 

  
  


Pyro also known as... _ The Pyro _ is easily the hardest to describe to strangers. Picture someone who could, quite literally, vanquish an entire army to ash and dust. Then picture that same person playing tetris and puzzle games after dinner. That’s their Pyro, with their absolute carnage and violence, havoc in their battles, but also, in some odd way, gentle. They always wave at Miss Pauling, even when they're partially smoldering. Collects bottle caps (Engineer gives them to Pyro) and hangs posters they find in dumps, right in the dining section.

Strangely enough, she doesn’t feel like a target when she interacts with them. It’s almost like talking to an old friend. Hell, they’ve known each other long enough.

Miss Pauling’s learned some sign language, but Pyro’s also kinda got their own little system of communication. She can tell when they’re having a shitty day, or a blissful one. The glee practically sings in their steps, as does their grief. 

They once gave Miss Pauling a flower, for her birthday. A daisy, freshly picked from the ground. How they knew it was her birthday, she still hasn’t a clue. But it was sweet. And a bit unnerving. 

Tom Jones, also known as  _ The Spy _ , is a conviving man, full of fake mystery and even faker vanity. His ego is as big as the Eiffel Tower, which he claims to have climbed at least seven times before he reached his 20s. Miss Pauling chooses to not debate that, against her mind’s wishes. Loves expensive things, including those fat cigars from Cuba. Dresses well for someone who quite literally shapeshifts and swiftly kills his prey. She never  _ did  _ get around to asking him how the hell he actually did that, but whatever. Kinda too late now. 

He’s a phenomenal liar, which is great for his job. Not so great for everything else in his life, but hey, she can’t judge. 

He’s Scout’s father. She knows it as a fact. He knows that she knows. They don’t talk about it. 

Mundy, also known as  _ The Sniper _ , is the best of the best. World class at, well, sniping. Can get a headshot from over 500 miles away, and not break a sweat. A nice, heavy accent from down under. Appreciates alone time, mostly because he’s learned and suffered in it. Thrives in it, even. 

Which can make him a bit unapproachable. Stiff, but good at ice breakers. The basic stuff.

_ “How are you, Miss Pauling?” _

_ “It’s raining like cats and dogs, right, Miss Pauling?” _

_ “I logged in forty kills today, Miss Pauling.” _

Murder as an ice breaker should probably not be a normal thing in Miss Pauling’s life, but, hey. She’s adapted. 

Also, don’t make Miss Pauling think about what he does  _ in  _ and  _ with  _ those jars. For the love of God, just  _ don’t.  _

Tavish Finnegan DeGroot, also known as  _ The Demoman _ is an excitable Scottish man, to say the very least. Knows his way around anything explosive. Seriously,  _ anything. _ He could make a dust pan explode and kill a poor bastard. Jiggy in his speech, but nice. Drinks more than any human should be capable of. Liver’s probably made out of the stuff they make tire irons with. Seriously, it’s a little scary.

He’s a pretty good conversationalist. Very good at planning. A momma’s boy, but not in the creepy basement way. Likes hard rock and history. Loved sports as a  _ wee lad _ . A sweet tooth, particularly for chocolate pretzels. 

He once offered Miss Pauling a drink, to which she politely declined. She can’t drink on the job, she explained. That was met with absolute, utter confusion. 

And, lastly, Mikhail, also known as  _ The Heavy. _ A Russian bear, strong and powerful. A true force to the team, with the ability to barrel down his enemies as if they were mere bowling pins.  _ All that muscle.  _ The weapons guy. If you need anything to do with guns, or knives, or gun-knives, or machine-gun-knives (yes, that’s a thing) then you go to Heavy. 

He’s not a man of many words, usually observing more than actually talking. But, he knows when to point out stupidity. Heavy clearly knows a lot more than he lets on. 

A slow, bassy voice, almost like velvet. Wise eyes that smile even when his lips don’t. Loves poetry, especially from his homeland, and the arts. He wanted to be a literature professor at one point, back when he was in his studies. Also, a good cook. 

She doesn’t know very much about his homelife, but from what she can gather, it was hard. Miss Pauling imagines cold Russian nights, empty bellies and stern fathers.  _ Character building _ , she supposes. Maybe. No one in this special group really had it easy. 

The team. Her team. Their team. 

_ Team Fortress. _

God help them all.

END OF PROLOGUE.

\--  
The weekend. Two days of no killing, no battles, no blood to spill. Well, if they can help it. Miss Pauling’s off to clean up whatever mess they made from the missions. She’s not gonna get any leisure time, that’s for sure. Unless you count burying corpses full of holes as relaxing.

Soldier probably would.

“Great job this time, men. We really stuck it to those Commie bastards!” Soldier gloated, smiling as everyone piled into their base. 

“How do you know they were Communists?” Scout asked, trying to wipe some blood off of his cheek. It only smeared. 

Soldier laughed at that, “Those chicken-shit cowards? I can smell the Commie piss coming out of their pantaloons a mile away. Pathetic scum!” he turned to Heavy, “No offense, son.”

Heavy didn’t respond, used to the remarks. Medic was unstrapping his Medi-Gun from his body, taking off his gloves and putting a bare hand through his hair. It was a little sweaty. Ick. 

“That went better than expected.” Medic said, watching Pyro gently flickering their flamethrower. Not enough to alarm, but just enough to make Scout haul ass.

“You always say that,” Spy retorted, “zat zas better zen exzpected!” 

Medic scoffed, “You’re one to poke fun at accents, you Baguette Bastard.”

Spy was about to snap back, something about how Germans are the weakest breed of European, before the Engineer chimed in, “It’ll be nice to get settled down. Y'all up for some barbeque tonight? My treat.”

They all made noises of agreement, before pooling into their individual rooms. Sniper was the last to leave the entryway, turning off the light and making sure all locks were indeed, well, locked. 

Can never be too careful.

\--

After a long, difficult mission, and a pretty hectic week (though, when’s it ever non-hectic around here?) the unwinding process is a must. Showers, patch ups, food. Play music, or watch T.V.--Sniper’s into Let’s Make A Deal. Demo’s into nature documentaries. 

Sniper, Demo, Engineer and Scout were all in the living room area. It’s a pretty big space, with a pool table, non-money vending machines, TV and other things. Books. Some of them are porn mags. Dirty bastards. 

Medic had taken a shower. Always needed to right after any battle or mission. Cleared his mind, and made his hair smell nice again. Plus, he’s been meaning to try out this green apple body wash that Spy recommended. 

As he finished dressing, he heard a knock. Heavy. It had to be. His big fingers could only make those specific thunks against the metal. Medic called for him to come in. 

“Doctor,” he greeted, eyeing his still wet hair. He hoped Heavy knew it was from the shower, and that he isn’t capable of sweating like a pig in July. 

“Ah, yes, hello,” Medic greeted back, stretching a bit into his casual outfit. A white, basic top and brown pants. They look similar to his formal wear, but are stretchier. More breathable. 

Heavy looked like he had something to confess, eyes a little wider than usual. Oh boy.

“What is it, Misha?”

“While you were taking shower, bird was yelling. I do not know his dietary schedule, but I gave him some seed.”

Heavy, for some reason, looked as if he crossed some line. Medic couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his face.

“Thank you, mien friend. Now I won’t have to give Archimedes a midnight snack. Greedy little thing, he is. Are we still up for a few games of chess later?”

The larger man looked a bit more relieved, nodding. Then..

Sniff, sniiiiff!

“Smell like fresh apples. Is nice.” Heavy said before making his exit. Medic’s smile deepened, against his wishes. He then picked up the towel from his bed and began to dry his hair. 

\--

3:32 PM. By now, everyone was in their weekend clothes. Muscles untensed, jaws unclenched. 

Everyone but Pyro, who was still suited up, flamethrower still in hand. Engineer approached them, causing them to look up from the book they were reading. Something about weather patterns. Cloud formations. It didn’t seem like they were all too into it, though. Not as much as usual, at least, still flickering the flamethrower on and off. 

Flick. Flick. Flick. 

“Hey, Buddy, have you taken that thing off yet today?” Engie was gentle and low. Pyro shook their head, “This week?”

Pyro shook their head again. Engineer frowned a little. Hmm.

“You should go unzip, let your puppies breathe. Just for a little bit. Might feel good.”

Pyro, though faceless in their exterior, clearly was uncertain of that. Maybe a bit uneasy. Right here? Right now? Engineer cleared his throat, hand softly patting Pyro’s shoulder. 

“Tell you what, how about you get outta your suit in your room? Just to stretch the limbs. I’ll tell everyone not to bother you, I promise.”

And, well, a promise from the Golden Southern Boy himself seemed like a done deal. Pyro nodded, beginning to make way to their room. Engineer smiled to himself. There we go. Now all of them were escaping the battle mode. 

\--

Spy doesn’t interact with the others much outside of work. Usually coops himself up in his room, or disappears until Monday morning. Though, he will pop by for dinners, insults on hand. 

Engineer cooked the finest ribs and wings you could imagine, Texas style. Fat, meaty, and smoked like all Hell, grilled to perfection and slapped with a tangy, spicy sauce. One that makes the buds water just right. He cooked those babies whilst bobbing along to Fleetwood Mac. 

They eat together. Scout cracks a poorly worded pun. Demo guzzled down four beers in 17 minutes. And Sniper does the dishes. Pyro helps him. They like the warmth of the dishwasher. None of them want to say it, but it’s kind of like family. 

\--  
8:02 PM. Miss Pauling arrives. She’s a bit more disheveled, some speckles of dirt on her glasses, and her skirt a little crooked. She makes a self note to get an extra large espresso tomorrow morning. Heels make this job even more of a personal hell, but she loves her purple ones. They were a birthday gift.

“What brings Miss Pauling here?” Heavy inquires, nibbling on the last wing he could snatch up. He asks this every time. 

“Just here to notify. I cleaned up the...aftermath.” She replies, and God, her arms hurt from all the digging. Maybe she should start setting the evidence on fire. Pyro could show her some tricks. 

“Want a rib, Miss Pauling? There’s some left over,” Engineer offers, “best damn thing you’ll have in your life!”

She smiles, just now realizing that she hasn’t ate a thing but caffeine and her own overwhelming thoughts all day, “Maybe next time. Thanks, though.”

Before Scout can ask her if she’s free this Sunday (She’s not. She never is.) she hears her phone beep. Duty calls. Whatever that horrendous, exhausting duty might be this time. 

“I gotta run, guys. See’ya Monday.”

They all went their other ways into the complex, some into their rooms, and others in the other sections. 

Miss Pauling was nearly to her car before she was stopped by a solid, controlled voice, calling out. Soldier. 

“Miss Pauling!” Soldier yells out again, though it’s obvious that she’s looking directly at him. And he’s, like, two feet away.

“...Yes, Soldier?” 

And, suddenly, a pause in silence. Which is not all that common with this man. Her ankles are screaming at her, and oh God now her shoulders are starting up too. She’s looking forward to the eventual tylenol coma. If that ever comes tonight. 

(It won’t.)

“I, uh, just wanted to inform you that, uh,” Soldier’s breaking eye contact, looking at her car instead, “If you have any left over contracts, let me know. Anything.”

That’s it? Is what the woman wants to scream, but instead, she goes with, “Copy that.”

She barely gets an inch closer to the car before he speaks up again. The moon’s big tonight, like a huge hole, sucking up all the air. There’s a nice breeze, too. 

“This week’s been a lot.”

“It always is.”

“But I like keeping busy. I like fighting. Getting them good.”

“I know, Soldier.”

“It reminds me of the war.”

And, Miss Pauling could snap. She’s got too many things to do, not enough time, and absolutely no energy to do any of them. She could snap, and tell him to shut up, because she’s sick of the fake war stories about eyeless Joe and legless Donavan. But she doesn’t. Instead, she sighs, brushing a greasy strand of hair from her eye. 

“I know it does, Soldier.”

“That’s who I am, y’know. The soldier. In the war.”

The silence is more than a pause now. Miss Pauling is almost grateful that he’s just staring at the car.

“You’ll be the first guy I get if I need something done. Promise.”

And with that, he salutes her before heading back in. Hopefully a little more content. Somehow.

Miss Pauling finally enters the car, ears starting to ring. She catches a glance at her phone. She’s received 15 messages from base in the span of three minutes. 

Fuck.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u enjoy!!! feedback is appreciated!

“Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Great advice from the guy who's currently driving drunk at 70 mph. Scout doesn’t even try to stop the eyeroll. 

“How come everyone always thinks I’m gonna fuck up?”

The car takes a sharp turn, far sharper than needed. The way to town takes about half an hour. _That’s a good chunk of time for a stupid bucket of chicken,_ Demoman thinks, but hey. Scout was bugging people to drive him (he _hates_ driving, it’s too stressful) and he was getting desperate enough to call up Miss Pauling about it. Can’t have that at 2 AM.

“I never said that, lad.”

“You _just_ said don’t do anything stupid.”

Scout always has a bite in his tone. Not snark, per say, but agitation. Bitchy, if you will. You could be talking about the mating cycle of turtles, and he’d have some quip to let out. Always on the defense, secretly begging to be offense. 

The car takes another sharp turn. Demo misses the taste of crisp whiskey on his lips. 

“I’m just saying. Being near civilians is risky.”

Well, yes and no. The team is allowed to go into town whenever they want--which means, _just not on our time_. Scout goes into town the most, usually to get fast food. Pyro goes the least, but likes to stop by for holiday festivals. Demoman goes to their liquor store. Though, he hates the drive. Far too many winding paths. Doing this sober probably would’ve been a better idea. 

Another rule is that, while they _can_ go into town, it is suggested _(commanded)_ that they have limited interactions with the...normals. No deep conversations, no friendships, and no fighting. Simple. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whateva’.” Scout huffs out, like a child who’s been scolded off to bed. Demoman makes the last sharp turn in their trip, the car tipping a little as he does. The smaller man doesn’t admit to his heart jumping into his stomach. 

\--

They arrive. _Clucky’s_. It’s a tiny establishment, almost pathetically so. A giant chicken looms over the rooftop, with cold, dead eyes. Watching them. Demoman feels his buzz being shaken, something not too kindly fond of by either parties.

They enter. It’s relatively empty, except for a group of young people (20’s? Mid 20’s?) gathered at a table, giggling and munching away. Scout strolls up to order. 

“Yeah, lemme get a Classic Bucket, and a Nugget Deluxe meal here for my friend.”

Demoman didn’t say anything. He didn’t like how this felt, for some reason. He blamed it on the bad nerves and thick intoxication. Scout pulled out a wad of cash, giving it to the cashier. 

Miss Pauling gives them money, usually in pretty good portions too. No one’s sure if it’s from her own pocket or base. They all kind of hope it’s the latter. 

It’s not a long wait, thank God. Scout looks giddy, scooping the meals into his arms as he makes way to the exit doors. Demoman lets out a quick thanks before following him. 

One of the customers, a guy with a particularly sour smirk, shouts, “How’d you lose the eye?”

They should’ve ignored it. Demoman was _planning_ to ignore it, so he could be on his merry way, back into the arms of his vice. But Scout turned, eyebrows knitted. _Oh, Sweet Jesus._

“How’d you get that stupid fuckin’ face?” Scout spat out. A couple of the girls at the table giggled. It surely was _not_ a praise towards him. 

The guy looked angry, but in the cool, controlled way. Pissed off, but interested. Like every other young asshole when bored. 

“It’s my O face. Y’know, when I’m with your Mom.”

Nice. He’s used to jabs about good ol’ Ma. 

Scout takes a couple of stomps towards him. Demoman puts his hand on his shoulder, practically clasping it, “Let it go.”

Scout shouts some profanity, muttering a couple of more as he begins to turn around again. Demo feels the smallest sigh of relief inside of him. Finally, almost away from this shitty fried chicken Hell. 

“You never answered my question, Cyclops!”

Scout makes a bolt towards the man, both chicken meals now discarded onto the floor. _Ick._

He slugs him right in the jaw, _hard_ . Hard enough for the guy to fall out of his seat, and for the girls accompanying him to scream. His buddy laughs a little, before Scout takes a hit at him too, in the neck. _Shit._

Scout strikes the asshole a few more times, kicking his side even. Screaming nonsense. Demoman can make out a “ _you fuckin’ like that tough guy?”_ as he, quite literally, drags him off of the man. Kicking and screaming. A goddamn ten year old. 

Demoman doesn’t have time to get a good look, but someone’s probably called the cops. Gonna leave more than a few marks. And his nose is bleeding pretty bad. Gotta haul ass. 

The Scottish man pulls him out of the restaurant, into the parking lot, and shoves him into the car. By now, Scout’s breathing is less erratic. His face is still a bit red, though. 

They drive away, faster than ever, breaking every speed limit known by the law. 

_“Now, what the fuck was that?”_ Demoman screams. He keeps looking at his rear view mirror. 

“He called you-”

**_“You fuckin’ call me Cyclops!”_ ** Demoman shrieks this time, taking a sharp right. Scout fears for his life in that millisecond. 

“Yeah, but-”

_“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! Not a bloody peep out of you!”_

Scout strangely does as told. Well, for a good ten minutes, before he lets out a knowing sigh. 

“Shit. I forgot the chicken.”

Demoman almost runs them straight into a tree. 

Gotta ring Miss Pauling. At 3 AM. 

\-- 

Miss Pauling could take care of it. She always does. Doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it. Or neutral. Or even the least bit pleasant. 

The two explained the situation, though both were very two different ways. Scout swears on Mr. Clucky himself that it was _unavoidable, necessary force_. 

“I’ll necessarily force you through that wall, boy-o!” Demoman yelled.

Miss Pauling let out a noise. It was supposed to be a huff, but she passed being frustrated. Her anger, though still _very_ much felt, is being drowned out by a thousand other things.

“I’ll take care of it.” she says, taking out her phone. She’s gonna have to make a few calls. 

She leaves shortly after. Demoman went straight for his stache and Scout awkwardly shuffled back into his room, hopefully to go to sleep.

They never ask her how. None of them do. But it’s understood. 

Well, one more chore to do. _Splendid._

\--

  
  


The sun was barely peeking out from the horizon. So early, even the birds knew better than to peep. Demoman and Soldier have this thing going on. Kind of. No one knows, but it’s not like they know either, really. It all started when Soldier drunkenly climbed in with an even drunker Demoman, both passing out in the same bed, not a thought in the world. 

Soldier wasn’t asleep. Soldier barely sleeps, usually only clocking out for thirty minute shifts at a time. It’s how he handles the insomnia. And the nightmares. 

He also lays there. Like a brick. Arms at his sides, flat on his back, eyes to the ceiling. Frozen.

Demoman is different, shifting throughout the night, particularly his legs. They don’t kick, per say, but they do wiggle. He also snores something awful, his chest vibrates as they pour out. 

Soldier doesn’t mind, because when he wakes up from the dreams about angry hands and screaming men and loud, booming noises, ripping into his ears, ringing a he sees the blood of his friends, of his _Demoman_ , spilling onto soil, melting with images of a Father, fists and fury-- and a dozen other things Soldier can’t comprehend--he awakes to Demo, snoring something awful, alive and at peace. And feels safe. 

Demoman doesn’t mind, because it makes him sick to be alone. Pride and shame would never allow him to say that, but loneliness has been a worse, and more hated, enemy than any Spy or Sniper has ever been. He hates the cold of a lone slumber, it only leads to weary eyes and more drinks slung down his throat. But Soldier’s _warm_ , heat radiating off of him like he’s an expensive new coat. Like a Summer dream. Like a million other hot things. 

_Uh, don’t take that as Demoman calling Soldier hot._

_He doesn’t want to think about that._

Point being, Demoman likes sleeping next to Soldier. And Soldier likes sleeping next to Demoman. Whatever that means.

One of them leaves before the other wakes. Usually Soldier. Always Soldier.

He climbs out, bare chest, American boxers on, and quietly shuffles out. Though still down for the count, Demoman twitches at the loss. 

\--

Mornings are slow during the weekends. _Easy like Sunday morning, right?_

Scout showers in the mornings, even on battle days. Wakes him up. Then he can eat his cereal ( _his cereal, he’s pointed that out to his team far too many times)_ as the wet hair dries. Hates hairdryers, and towels, to be honest. Scout munches on the Fruity Pops Crunch Deluxe cereal, straight from the box. No milk, no bowl, nothing but his hands and the poor box, while watching morning cartoons.

Reminds him of when he was a kid, Ma passed out and hungover, still in her pretty lipstick and dress from the night before. Little Scout on his sticky couch, watching Bugs Bunny make that chucklehead hunter look like a doofus. Good times, good times.

Pyro enters the kitchen, only to make some oatmeal. Scout, or anyone for that matter, doesn’t really actually _see_ them eat (or drink). They all just see the thing Pyro has in their hand eventually empty or disappear all together. Scout tries not to think about it as Pyro joins him in watching TV, a bowl of fresh cinnamon sugar oatmeal on the floor next to them. 

They muffle something, and even Scout can hear the exhaustion in it. Can’t make out words, per say, but…

“What was that?” Scout slurred out, swallowing some cereal. 

Pyro turned around, signing. _Oh, shit. Scout hopes he remembers some of the stuff Engineer taught him._

  
  


_I….LIKE….THIS….ONE._

And they motion to the T.V. screen. The Flintstones intro is playing. Scout hates the everloving fuck out of this show. It’s boring, and he hates the prehistoric puns. He could make better ones, he’s sure of it.

“Uh, yeah, whatever. ‘S fine.” Scout says, shoving his hand into the cereal box again. His fingers are met with powder, the ashes of his tasty endeavor. He licks it off.

“ _Ick,_ ” Medic enters, clearly already done with Scout’s shit. Out of all of the team, he has the worst bedhead. The Doctor turns to Pyro, “Guten morgen.”

Pyro waves. Half of the oatmeal is gone.

_What the fuck._

_\--_

Today was a stay inside and get drunk as hell day. No one really stated that out loud, but they all pooled into the living room, cooler full of beers. No dinner. Which is a shame, really, because Engie had just gotten this really nifty cooking book. 

No one really saw Spy enter, but there he was, drinking with them. 

They all were on the floor, except for Sniper, who took the entire mini-couch. _Asshole._

Scout’s a lightweight, and after two and a half beers, he’s slurring like he’s been knocked around. 

“ _Oh-hoh-kay!_ This is officially _bor-ing!_ ” Scout huffed, taking a generous glup from his bottle, “Let’s play a game.”

Pyro clapped his hands, then signed. _Hide and seek?_

“Last time we did that Miss Pauling had to order us a new wall.” Sniper said, sleep beginning to curl around his words. They all muffled some kind of agreement. 

Silence boded through the room. 

“What about Never-Have-I-Ever?” Scout chimed, clearly thinking a lightbulb went off.

“This isn’t a sleepover, son.” Soldier quipped. He crushed a beer can with his hand. _Lookie, badass over here!_

“Never-Have-I-Ever?” Heavy asked. He was still seemingly sober, even after three beers. Medic shifted his weight to face him more. 

“It’s where someone says a prompt like,” Medic puts up all of his fingers,”Never have I ever killed--and if you have, you put down a finger.”

Heavy nodded, quickly putting a finger up and then down, “I have.”

“We _all_ have.” Spy said.

Demoman was on his sixth beer, chugging it soundly as he finished it off, “Right. Let’s do it, lads.”

\--

Scout announced that he’d start them off. Loudly. He sat up, back against the wall, head a little dizzy from moving so harshly, and put all of his fingers up. This oughta be good.

“Neva’ have I eva’,” he dragged the words along, “been rejected by a woman.”

“I thought it was something the person asking _also_ has never experienced.” Spy said, smirking. 

Scout immediately went a little red, mixed with actual flush and alcohol streaming inside him, “We never said that was a rule!”

All but Heavy, Spy, Engie and Pyro put a finger down. Scout keeps his up. They all stare.

“Screw off! I’ve never been rejected.”

“Yeah, probably because you’ve never _tried_.” Engineer spoke up, waggling his eyebrows. Chuckles started the spill out.

“ _Double_ screw off! I have! And succeeded! _A lot_ of women! _All_ the time!” Before Scout could go on a rant, Demoman dove into the cooler, loud enough to halt everyone’s conversation. He cracked open another cold one. 

“I understand everyone else, but, I ‘ave to admit. I find it strange that _you’ve_ been rejected.” The Scott said, gesturing to Soldier. 

“Really?” Scout asked, obviously not too impressed.

“Yeah.”

_“Really?”_ Scout asked again, genuinely this time.

_“Yes._ I mean, you know what they say. Women like a man in uniform.” Demoman winked, chuckling. 

“Doctor’s uniforms creep some people out, I’ve come to find.” Medic said. He was fully sprawled onto the floor, his empty beer cans next to him. In the back of his mind, he was trying to figure out if he could slip away for a second to give Archimedes his midnight snack. 

“I think _you_ just creep people out,” Scout said, finger wagging, “The general public is scared of Frankensteins, not horny for ‘em.”

“Question. Why would someone get aroused by dancing?” Solder enquired. If you were close enough, you could see his cheeks get a little rosy. 

“Pardon?” Engineer cocked his head.

“Why would someone get aroused by being asked to dance?” Soldier asked again. His one hand was soothing the other, seemingly a bit nervous, lips in a thin line. 

Silence. They all had to marinate in that one for a moment. 

“Lad,” Demoman started, leaning forward a bit as to not laugh, “we mean asking someone _out._ Like on a date.”

“Oh.”

“Have you ever done that?” Medic asked. He changed his position now, on his stomach, feet kicking up and down. _God, this really was turning into a slumber party._

“I asked this girl to dance with me once in highschool. She said no. Later I found out her Father was Swedish. Dodged a disturbing bullet with that one. ” Soldier was looking at his socks. He moved into the criss-cross-applesauce position, “Does that count?”

“Not really.” Medic replied. 

“Not at all.” Scout chimed in. They all kinda agreed. 

“Oh.”

“I honestly thought when you said rejected you meant, like, _sex._ ” Spy said, crossing his arms. The last time he went dancing with someone was with…

_Well.._

“I thought the same.” Heavy said, scooching a little. They’ve all seemed to form a circle. 

“Well-” Scout spoke before even forming his next thought,”Um, _well-uh!_ Who cares! Rejected means rejected, in any case.” 

“We need to be more specific on these things.” Engie sighed. Scout threw his hands up, wordlessly muttering something. Sniper was nearly passed out at this point, hand draping from the couch. Scout made a mental note to get a bowl of water soon. 

And specific it got. Outright strange. They played a couple of rounds, finding out useless, but intriguing things about each other. Heavy was in a dance recital once, solely because his sister needed a ballet partner for a competition. They came in second. Medic’s ambidextrous. Engineer once hitchhiked all the way to the Grand Canyon. Spy can go up to a week without sleeping, though it’s not recommended. 

Eventually, the game kind of just delved into honesty. Which held a strange feeling over their heads. Kind of scary, to be honest.

Heavy spoke the least, not out of fear or embarrassment, but mostly just to listen. Scout’s answers were just ramblings. 

Pauses of silence were both a blessing and a curse, the party feeling both incredibly vulnerable and guarded. No one remembers, but somehow, the topic of the body came up. No one was very pleased about it. Except maybe Medic.

“Bodies are wonderful,” Medic said, grinning a little too much, “I stare at them quite literally all day. Parts of them are in my lab. The human mold is very fascinating.”

Scout cringed, thinking about all the hands and eyes and God knows what inside that freak’s hellscape. Medic went on, “I think I prefer a bigger body. Strong. Might serve as a good canvas to search.”

A sleepy Heavy was thankful that it was dark in that room. He really was. Scout rubbed the back of his neck.

“Miss Pauling’s pretty. I like her body.” Scout said, lower than intended. He was served a few looks, before sputtering, “I mean, not in a gross way, I’m not no _creep_. I-I just--”

He made motions with his hands, obviously flustered. Soldier couldn’t hold back a chuckle. He never does. 

“She is a pretty girl.” Soldier agreed.

Scout’s eyes were wide, glossy almost. He picked up and swigged what was left of his beer, “I wish I was built better. I mean, I think Miss Pauling would want some more beef, y’know?”

Demoman’s eyebrows twitched a little, “Ah, no. I don’t know.”

Scout huffed, searching for the words. None were in his head, but feelings were. Feeling a lot. Feeling small. Jesus fuck, he _hated_ feeling small. And that’s _all_ he’s ever felt, the shrimpy, fast kid. Good at baseball but not at fistfights. Quick to anger and slow to assessing. He’s small and feels _far too much_ , all the time, everywhere, about everything. 

Eyes are on him. Scout’s skin feels tingly. 

“I dunno. I just wanna be different for her, I guess.”

A deep voice rang out, like a purr, “No. You want to be different for you.”

Heavy was leaning on the edge of the couch, eyes clearly fluttering. Scout’s nostrils flared a bit, so Heavy explained further, “It’s not selfish thing. It’s just for you."

Hmph. _What the fuck does he know?_ He’s been big all his life, a lard of mass, not having to answer to nobody, not feeling cornered by his own fucking head. Heavy’s big and it means he’s worth something, Scout thinks. That thought is drowned out, swiftly, before he could further entertain it. 

“Whateva’, fatso. I can start benchin’ whenever I want.”

There’s that silence again. No one really knows what to do with it, rolling it around in a little ball. Do they throw it? Bounce it? Hide it away? Who fucking knows. Sniper’s starting to snore. Heavy is soon to be out as well. Medic’s cheek is getting sore from pressing it so hard against his fist, propping himself up.

“I mean, I don’t think anyone is _okay_ with the body they’ve been given.” Medic drawls out, maybe in a shy sense, or at least trying to seem that way.

“There’s definitely people who are.” Engineer says, as simple as that. Maybe too simple. 

“Doesn’t mean that it isn’t normal to not be okay with it,” Medic says, quieter. He’s fighting back a yawn, and something else. “Body’s are interesting, but they can be difficult. I don’t know when’s the last time I’ve felt good about my calves. Or my chest.” he says that last part a bit roughly, as if he didn’t mean for it all to come out like that.

Chest. Scout hasn’t thought about that in a while. _God._ Medic is either carefully not making eye contact, or highly interested in the floor pattern.

“Okay, not okay, who fuckin’ cares?” Scout barks. He’s getting a little sick, and he doesn’t think it’s the alcohol. 

Engineer rubs his head, a dull pain coming in. _Pre-hangover, maybe?_ He glances at Pyro, who is surprisingly still awake. He taps their shoulder.

“Hey, you holdin’ up?” 

Pyro nods.

“Bored?”

Pyro nods slowly, but then shrugs. They sign, in a rather quick fashion, _What’s wrong with everyone’s bodies? Seem healed to me._

Engineer chuckles. Good viewpoint. 

“Yeah.”

Scout, Medic and Sniper all stay in the living room. Heavy awakens, slugging himself back to his own room. Soldier, passed out cold, is carried away by Demoman. And Engineer asks Pyro if they want to see some invention plans in his work room. Pyro, obviously, says yes. Spy leaves without anyone noticing, but not before raiding the fridge of all of its strawberries. 

Scout and Medic, being the only conscious people in the room, feel awkward. And stiff. They should’ve just left. Probably. Or maybe not; maybe having to lay and decompress in the thoughts would be far worse. 

They’re silent. Scout falls asleep first. Medic goes to his lab.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u enjoy!!! feedback is always welcomed and appreciated!

Sniper hates crowds. Too many bloody people, too many bloody noises, too many bloody opportunities to luck out. Don’t think this is just because of his occupation, no sir, this loathing has been sitting in his bones since the day he was brought into the World.

The zoo, the mall, the park, Hell, even school. _Especially_ school. That establishment of bullshit is more barbaric than any lion den he’s ever seen. At least the big cats get something to munch on every two hours. All Sniper got were demerits for skipping and F’s in Chemistry. Teachers had it out for him, and so did the Dean.

At fifteen years old, he’d become a near professional at hiding. Through the vents, slipping past classrooms, underneath in the basement. No hall monitor could detect the great _Freakazoid Mund’s_ patrolling with them, sometimes (everytime) to screw with their minds. He’d makeshift sling shots, and pelt spitballs at the buggars, watching them squirm. He could hit them at nearly twenty feet away. 

Boom. _Headshot._

School’s hell, everyone knows that. Life’s hell, too. Nobody really spells that out for you. Sure, you hear it in the songs on the radio, or polished all nice and pretty on the big screen, but no one tells you where you can be lead. Even if it’s by your own hand. 

Sniper’s life may be...distasteful to most, but he’s got more coordination than the lot that do fuck all with their lives. He’s just like any other respected office chap, except he’s _precise_. He’s perfected the job. A sniper needs to accomplish one thing: the kill. And, by God, if anything is true in this world, it’s that Sniper has accomplished that.

He likes being alone. They’ll tell you only lonely people say that. But, there’s a difference between loneliness and being alone. Isolation can be good, it can be damn near _everything._ Peace, quiet, concentration. A professional _needs_ to concentrate. 

So, he doesn’t take too well to people who want to be friends. Such is a word. _Friends_. Sniper really can’t understand it sometimes, especially after blowing off the heads of countless men. Could they, perhaps in another life, somewhere, have had a drink? A laugh? Maybe.

Sniper doesn’t ruminate on the impossible, or the pointless, though. He just does, and lives, in that moment. The headshot. 

With all that being said, him being associated with some of the most hectic people to ever grace this Earth (at least, in his own opinion) was probably a bad call. Or, maybe not. He’s useful, that’s for sure. Doesn’t make waste of his resources, unlike others ( _that jab was at you, Scout!)_ and knows his place.

He doesn’t _get_ attached to most things. Nothing, Sniper might even argue. It just wouldn’t be worth it. 

\--

Pyro is melting something. What it was, Sniper will never know, because right now it’s being reduced into a gooey mess on the floor. Scout’s watching, in a rather child-like awe. As if he hasn’t seen Pyro literally burn down entire buildings before.

“Here, wait! Lemme find ‘ya somethin’ else!” Scout practically chirps. He moves around the room, scouting (please laugh) out for something to grab. Pencils? Nah, already did that. A coin? Boring. Need something bigger. The man finds a clear glass jar, right on the table. _Bingo._

He places the jar in front of Pyro, “Melt this! But not too much. Then we can, like, mold it into somethin’,” Scout was, of course, referring to a penis.

Sniper just registered what that was. _His jar._

“Oi!” Sniper yelled, causing Pyro to seize ignition, “That’s mine!”

He quickly snatched it back, instinctively rubbing it. _Poor thing._ Scout pulled a face, disappointment clear. Pyro giggled. 

_That’s his baby_ , Pyro signed. Scout’s eyebrows, as always, judged. 

“Yeah, you’re a freakin’ weirdo, Snipe.”

“Why don’t you go burn _your own_ shit?!” Sniper snapped back, turning around. Back to the tower, he supposes. Scout and Pyro exchange eye contact.

_Okay, so. Maybe Sniper does get attached to some things. Ew._

“Wanna go set some tumbleweeds on fire?”

Well now, Pyro can’t pass up _that_ offer. 

\--

“We should plan for battles.” Heavy was helping the doctor put away some viles. What they were full of, Heavy couldn’t be positive. Definitely some blood, maybe plasma? A couple of the glass contaminants had a dark green liquid. Heavy didn’t question it, in the name of science and all of that.

“Oh, you know Spy and Dell will gather us tonight.” Medic said, emptying a bag full of...something, into a trash can. Let’s pray it isn’t toxic. Miss Pauling had to call a company to clean out the building the last time _that_ happened. 

The doctor looked up to see a pair of eyes. Heavy’s, thoughtful and worried. 

“What’s wrong, Misha?”

“There’s rumor that…” Heavy started out slowly, “that the enemy team has a plan.”

Medic chuckled, “Well, they always do. But, so do we.”

Heavy put away the last of the viles, closing the fridge. He looked around for a moment, “I heard it was a new one. Never used before. Dangerous.”

Heavy isn’t one to openly show his nerves. Sure, he’s got emotion. He can laugh so loud the room will shake, and his battlecry could make entire mountains cower in fear. It’s something the doctor loves about the man. But nervousness...it’s hard to go about, mainly because Heavy doesn’t know how to go on about it himself. Medic settles with putting a hand on Heavy’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. 

“Then we’ll come up with something even more dangerous.”

Heavy smiled at that, gentle and warm. _Ah, there we go._

Now, Medic has to ask him to help with limb-related things. 

\--

They did, in fact, have a meeting that night. Pyro made everyone hot chocolate. Scout and them hogged the whip cream. Engie had a huge blueprint laid out, lines and highlights marked everywhere. It was a plan. The same plan as last time. 

Medic could see Heavy’s eyes. He should speak up for him. So he did.

“Uh, I think we should reconsider.” Medic said, adjusting his glasses. Engie looked up, sipping on his drink.

“I know we barely made it out last time, but,” Engineer said, swallowing, “that was just a bad week for us. We can _really_ sock it to ‘em if we--”

“We need a new plan,” Heavy chimed in, “enemy has a new plan.”

Scout nodded, licking some whip cream off of his finger. _Gross_. 

“Tuns of fun is right, they’re gonna go apeshit this time.”

Spy cocked his eyebrow. He had finished his hot chocolate, now dining on a newly lit cigar, “And you know this how…?”

Scout grinned, cocky and boyish, “I scoped out their scene.”

Everyone made noises of surprise. Demoman gagged on his spiked cocoa. Spy nearly dropped his cigar. 

“You went to _their base? Alone?”_ Spy's eyes went wide, leaning towards the Scout. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the younger man flinched. 

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Do you know how _dangerous_ that was?” Demoman said, clearly agitated, but a bit softer in tone. Soldier shook his head. Something about _“that was real stupid, son”_. Scout couldn’t catch it.

“Why didn’t you ask me?” Spy sneered out more so than actually enquiring, “snooping around is quite literally _a part_ of my job.” 

Scout waved his hands defensively, hot chocolate now on the table. He could feel his face heating up. _Why was Spy getting louder?_

“I don’t fuckin’ know! I didn’t think it was such a big deal!”

“Well, it is.” Spy stated, cigar back in his mouth. Smoke drizzled into the air. Scout scoffed out a swear. 

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Engineer began to go over a plan again, pen in hand. They made some changes to the strategy. 

If the other team was gonna go apeshit. They’d go _super-mega-apeshit_ , as Scout put it. 

\--

Spy tried to talk about Scout’s foolishness again, tried to bring it up at the last second. No one was really into it though. They’d much rather look at their shoes, or make vague noises of agreement, or _literally anything else_ than go on with hearing a lecture. And Scout was over it. They’ve all done plenty of risky things, after all. Hell, Soldier’s _fucking ding-dong ditched_ the enemy team. He never gets shit for it. But Scout has to feel the role: the youngest. _Always_ chastised, even when he’s putting in a genuine, honest effort. 

Whatever. 

They’d all returned to their rooms for the night. Well, most of them. Demoman was having a bit of a midnight drink (or, well, _drinks_ ) and Spy was…

Spy was hanging around, for some reason. Beats Demoman. He offered him a shot of vodka though, which he accepted. 

“Y’know,” Demoman slurred a little, “it wasn’t _that_ big of a deal, lad.”

Spy gave him a look which clearly thought otherwise. He didn’t feel like fighting though. Spy looked tired enough. 

“I know.” Demoman said. Spy took another quick shot before moving to leave, the heat of the alcohol ripping through his throat. Hit the spot.

“No. You don’t.”

The battle was tomorrow. Demoman felt something shift, deep within his bones. 

He hoped it was just the vodka.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOLDIER CHAPTER LETS GOOOOOOOOOO
> 
> happy valentines day folks!!

The sky was atomic tangerine, not a cloud in sight. It was late July, and the jobless adults slept through the days. You could feel the sweat, sticking to the shirt on your back, reddening your knees. In the distance, kids could be heard. Playing hopscotch or leapfrog. Whatever it was that peers did together during these times.

America. Minnesota, to be more exact. Hurled into The Great Depression. Jane Doe was drawing figures into the dirt, sun glaring above. It was supposed to be a dinosaur, but he couldn’t quite remember what one looked like.  _ They had long necks, right? _

He hadn’t been to school in a while, even before break. The buses weren’t coming by anymore. Instead of returning home, he’d wander the block. It wasn’t the best of ideas, being nine years old and all, but boredom and the fear of seeing his Mother’s glossy eyes made him do it. 

She’d been sick. Everyone knows about Mrs. Doe. They almost locked her up, back in her youth. Female hysteria, or something like that. But a man fell in love with her, so every tale tells, and she did what a woman had to back then. 

And out came little Jane. He was only four pounds when he was born. They didn’t think he’d make it through the night. And, now, here he is. Playing in the dry, cracked Earth, getting his striped shirt messy. His stomach churned. Probably because it’s been two days since the last meal: all-broth soup.

Jane had tried to make friends, a couple of times, in fact. Problem was, people didn’t like him. That’s what he concluded, anyways. Mother made him sit with the big kids at Church, and awkwardly stand around the neighbor children when she gossiped with Mrs. Denzel. None of the kids asked him to play. They’d avoid his presence. A sore thumb. He gave up on conversation pretty early on.  _ I’m just not for people to like. I must have some other purpose.  _

Dinosaurs are cool. Jane likes dinosaurs. He’d read in a book once that they all died, which was sad. A big rock killed them all.

Jane wondered if that could happen again. The thought made his legs jitter. He didn’t want to die like that. Helpless. 

Jane would’ve tried to save the dinosaurs, if he was there.

_ “Jane.” _ A familiar, leathery voice came from behind.  _ Father.  _

The man, though malnourished and tired, was a large tower, looming over the boy’s figure. Thick, greying hair, with unruly, frizzy facial hair. Stringy sideburns, looking more like smoke dribbling down. Eye bags, the color of navy, almost. Those eyes pierced into Jane, daggers. 

He snapped forward, standing up as straight as he could, “Yes, sir?”

“What are you doing?” the man barked out, quickly snatching the stick from Jane. He promptly broke it in half. 

“I, uh,” but Jane couldn’t find words. They were all lost in his empty belly, the jitters coming back, coursing through his arms now. He felt like a paper in the wind. 

“You get back inside.  _ Now. _ ” His father pointed to the house, and Jane did as he was commanded. Like always, a Soldier following orders. 

As he opened the door, his Father gave him a hard slap to the back of the head. It rang into his ears.  _ Right,  _ he thought,  _ Him first _ , and quickly got out of his Father’s way. The man entered the house, muttering an insult. Jane couldn’t quite make it all out, but he heard one word for sure.  _ Stupid. _

Mother was in the kitchen, kneading dough.  _ Mm.  _ It looked stale. Father walked past her, instead reaching for a newspaper. Something was happening in the country, nothing good. The economy was in shambles, and the people were falling apart. That’s about as much as the boy could get from it, whatever an economy was. 

She smiled at her son. At one point, Jane thought his Mother’s smile was the most beautiful sight one could ever behold. She looked like one of them movie stars. Sharp features, round lips, and her hair was always in big, high curls. At least, that’s what he saw on the posters. Jane never could scrap up the quarters to see a moving picture. That doesn’t matter, though, really. What  _ does  _ matter is her smile.

It’s nothing now. A husk. Hollow and aching, like it hurts, like it’s  _ too much _ . The facade is slipping off more and more, every day. They all know it. They all ignore it. 

Jane took a glance at his Father, who sat in the big armchair. The one Mother begged to sell, just for some extra vegetables.  _ The boy needs his greens.  _ She was given a bloody lip for that one. And Jane was given a sore arm. Among other things that he can’t quite recall. 

It’s all just lost in the haze, sometimes. 

All the time. 

“Jane,” his Mother called out, her voice soft and delicate, “be a good boy and go to the store for me, will you? We need milk.”

He nodded, instructions clear. His Father yelled something, though Jane couldn’t get himself to process it. Another insult.  _ Useless moron.  _

And, just like that, he was off. His Mother didn’t give him much money, though she never did these days. There wasn’t much at all, anymore. Jane can’t remember when there ever was, truth be told. 

On his way, he saw two peers, playing jump rope. Giggling. It was Peter and Doug, from down the street. Good kids. Got some awards for sports, even at their ripe age. His Father once called them promising. 

Jane looked for more than a moment, before snapping back into his task, walking down the sidewalk. Sweat seeping. A soldier following orders. 

\--

Soldier remembers war. Not in the fields, where all the young men who were drafted laid squirming, bullets soaring through the air above them, the tanks and smoke all around. Friends, brothers, bleeding out. No, not like that.

He was just a boy. But war was still around. The mothers would be wailing, dropping to their knees as they got the news. He remembers sons and husbands dying, their funerals almost like a holiday--he’d wear his Sunday suit, and say a prayer at the viewing. Some were closed caskets, the damage too foul to see.

He hated open caskets. 

Wax skin, carefully brushed hair. A boy, no more than twenty two years old, forced into American war, brutal and worshipped. Promised to be made a legend. And he was, supposedly. Everyone called him a hero, a savior, the boy who laid in that peaceful sleep. His mother weeping, the pain to never leave. Medals were stuck onto his uniform. Soldier didn’t know what they meant. That the boy was forced to give up everything. All of this grief, all of this sorrow. All he knew was that another soldier died in the arms of war. And that his Father called him a hero for it. 

\--

“You alright?”

That was definitely a voice. A familiar voice. Which one was it?

There were a few tiny explosions, and the sound of fire flared up. Everyone was on the move. 

“Jane.”

It called out again. He knew this one,  _ he knew it. _ It wasn’t an enemy. It couldn’t have been. The voice had an edge to it, but was also sing-songy. 

Gunfire. Rapid, and  _ fucking  _ close. Their pace quickened. His feet were sore, the right one moreso. It was throbbing. 

Which one was it?

_ Which one was it? Which one was it? Which one was it? Which one was it? Which one was it? _

_ “Jane!”  _

_ Tavish. _ It was Tavish. Finally, the face registered, close to his own. Demoman’s hands were on him. The leg was killing him now, the searing pain climbing up his thighs. 

“Your leg.”

Oh. He looked down. It was covered in blood, and it wasn’t any dirty bastard’s. It was his own. 

_ Oh.  _

Demoman guided him to a wall, pulling him down to sit. It didn’t help, but it was nice. No running. More gunfire, though he couldn’t tell if it was closer or farther now. 

“ _ Christ, _ your leg, Jane.” Demoman was gaping at it, and yeah, it was pretty bad. But Demoman’s also seen Soldier’s arm get blown off, and his heart shot through, and his face melted off. So, he didn’t really understand the shock. It was a part of war.

“I know.” He said. Cuz,  _ well,  _ he did know. Kind of hard not to notice your leg bleeding profusely, like a piece of gory swiss cheese. 

“You need Medic. I’ll go get him.”

Soldier grasped onto Demoman’s shoulder, causing him to nearly fall over. 

“I’m fine. Just a scratch,” Soldier waved off, beginning to stand. He grunted a bit as he did, biting down his lip.

“Your leg’s--”

“Been through worse,” Soldier finished it for him, “Enough girl talk. We need to fight, private. Get a move on.”

And before he could hear that voice again, he was running. Pain, still slicing into his flesh, screaming at him. But the sounds of the battle, the sounds of  _ war _ , shrieked louder. 

He died, eventually. He thinks a Sniper got him, shot right through the skull. Maybe. He doesn’t really remember. What he does remember, though, is Demoman’s face, spotting him die. That eye, wide and…

And...

It doesn’t matter, anyways. He came back. Start and end. Then start again. 

Though, no one talks about the middle part. And he sure as Hell wasn’t going to start that conversation, let alone thought. 

\--

They had won. A pretty solid win too. Everyone was in a pleasant mood. Scout begged for ice cream, so he and Spy went to go get some.

Soldier asked for a vanilla sundae, with a chocolate drizzle, and a cherry on top. The American dessert, besides apple pie. He wonders if they make apple pie ice cream.  _ Mm. _

Demoman requested chocolate chip mint, with nuts. 

\--

“--And an espresso ice cream for me, please. All sizes medium. Except for the birthday cake one. That’ll be a large.” Spy finished off the order to the poor teenager working the  _ Sweetie’s  _ ice cream parlor. twitchy and clearly going through a lot, hormonally and spiritually, the kid nodded, on his way to get their treats. 

Scout rolled his eyes, “Of course you’d get an espresso ice cream. Fuckin’ pretenious asshole.”

Spy couldn’t help but laugh at that, “You’re unbelievable.”

_ “You’re  _ the one who’s unbelievable! Would it kill you to get a normal flavor for once?”

Now, Spy was pinching the bridge of his nose. He made a mental note to ask Medic for some aspirin. He also made a mental note to not come to get stuff with Scout anymore. Though, he was the one with the great memory for orders. 

“And french toast is a normal ice cream flavor?”

“Betta’ than freakin’ espresso!” his voice was always so  _ loud _ . If Scout wasn’t in the career he was in, Spy could picture him as a construction worker. Eating his hoagie lunches with the Boston pals. Swearing like a sailor when something hit his hard hat. Making decent money, maybe even having a big house. 

“Just shut up, Jeremy. Civilians will start staring.”

In full honesty, they probably should’ve changed. Considering they’re still in uniform.  _ Bloody, half singed uniforms.  _

Scout opened his mouth, but promptly shut it. The teen worker came back with the orders. And off they went. As they got back into the car, Scout inspected the large birthday cake ice cream, with an ungodly amount of sprinkles and whipped cream. 

“Pyro’s gonna love this one.”

\--

They all enjoyed their sweets in the now calm environment, in various spots throughout the base. All was fine.

Demoman scarfed down his ice cream fairly quick, against the warnings of Heavy.  _ You’re going to get bad bellyache.  _

Soldier was slower with his. He loved ice cream. Could remember when he watched the ice cream truck go down his street. They never got any, but  _ man,  _ that smell was heaven for kid. 

A little while later, and peace was setting into sleep. Medic went to bed early, as did Heavy. Engineer wanted to tinker with some workshop stuff. Spy left as soon as he finished his ice cream, and Pyro, as expected, thanked Scout for the flavor recommendation. Sniper, finishing his Moose Tracks cone, went off as well. 

Which just left Soldier and Demoman, up to their own devices. The Scott offered drinks, and the other couldn’t see why not.

\--

Demoman was drunk.

Well, okay. He’s never  _ not  _ intoxicated.

But Soldier can tell when he’s  _ drunk _ . His eye gets red at the corners, puffy almost. And there’s a way he looks at things, at people, at  _ him _ . Like to see if he’s really there.

Demoman hiccuped, loud and sluggish, another gulp going down the hatch. 

“I ha- _ te _ when it ha- _ ha- _ ppens, y’know.” he slurred out, head turning down. 

“What?”

Demoman looks up, right into his eyes. There’s something dark in there, in both of them. 

“When you die.”

“We all die.”

Demoman lets out what seems to be a chuckle, downing the drink yet again. 

“I hate it when you die, Janey.” Demoman restates. Simple, in a more hushed tone. Haunted, almost. 

“I always come back.” Soldier retorts gently. Rubbing the back of his head. Who knew the topic of death and immaculate (and probably a sin against, God,) resurrection could be so awkward. Not Soldier. 

“Aye.” Is all Demoman could say. But his face showed that he had more inside him then that. 

Soldier didn’t press on about it, though. A few moments of silence went on.

“Let’s go t’ bed then.”

And, Soldier nodded. Bed time. Then wake time. Then go time. 

Following the orders. 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u can spot the undertale reference i owe you my life savings

Heavy always wakes up with a yawn, his own sleep attempting to beacon him back. Instead of letting his eyes flutter again, he shifts, taking a look out the window. The sun is hiding today, behind a few fat clouds. But its light still manages to seep into the bed, heating up his body. Heavy stretches his legs, feet dangling off of the bed.  _ It’s too hot today.  _

It’s always too hot here. Even in the dead of winter, when Scout’s words jitter and Pyro giddily ignites the fireplace each night, the Russian finds it barely an alarming gust on his skin. He likes it cooler, if anything. It makes his senses tighter, more alert. And, it can be refreshing. The heat is stuffy, sluggish. Suffocating. 

You want to hear about cold?  _ Cold? _ Try sleeping in the snow--not the sweet powdery kind that cartoon reindeer prance in--the frigid,  _ hard _ , piercing into your flesh kind. Solid like brick, up to seven feet. The Earth buried, trapped underneath for God knows how long. Heavy remembers the nights where his fingers felt as if they could break off from merely touching. The howl of the winds, bitter and constantly pooling into the center of his skull. How his legs, fabric ripped and deteriorating, were rubbed raw by Mother Nature’s kiss.  _ Some tough love that was.  _

Heavy can’t say he misses  _ that. _ He does, however, miss the feeling of surviving. His Mother wept at the slightest hint of what he’d seen, or done, or had to get through to be able to see her and his sisters again. He doesn’t miss that. But…

He misses the feeling of victory. There were beautiful moments, too. The peak of an unnamed mountain, a sight that would be the closest Heavy will ever get to Heaven. The baby animals, snuggling close to their Mothers. Heavy fed a duckling once. It was abandoned, or at least lost. He let her nibble down the last of his plum, before scooping her up into his jacket. They went on their adventure, together, before a family of ducks gladly took her in. 

He won’t forget her. Sanya, and her quacks, the tiniest sounds he’d ever hear. A victorious feeling.

But, that was then. And the feeling of victory can only be achieved now with bloodshed, and brute, unyielding strength. Oh, and guns. 

Heavy stretches again, groaning a little as he does. The heat refuses to let up. 

\--

Scout’s been hinting at wanting to go out into the wilderness with someone. Sniper’s too impatient, Demo’s too preoccupied and Spy’s…

Well…

Heavy agrees. On one condition; being careful and mindful of nature. The rocky, mountain-like area has some beautiful spots. It’s a pretty diverse place, grassy hills, dry rock formations, and even a forest can be located. Heavy wonders if Scout’s ever been fishing. It might be interesting.

Being far from the respawn’s hold, though; That is something that Heavy doesn’t let ruminate too long.

Scout beamed, but then settled his expression. Almost as if he were embarrassed, “Nice! I’ll, uh, go pack.”

He practically bolted to his room. Heavy couldn’t resist the forming smile.

\--

It was a beautiful day outside. Birds were singing. Flowers were blooming. On days like these, mercenaries like Scout and Heavy…

Are trudging along an uphill slant. Scout’s backpack was full. Mostly of granola bars and sunscreen, but also a map and some water. Heavy knew they wouldn’t be needing a map. He knew the area very well, having taken a couple of hikes during their days off. It cleared the mind, and the body of what it endures. 

A breeze kept sighing in, cool, but not nearly enough. Summer, and the heat is seeping into the skin.  _ Ick.  _ Scout snagged a water bottle from his bag, taking an overhead drink before leaning it to the other man’s direction. 

“Wan’a sip?”

Heavy shook his head politely, explaining that he’d have his own water bottle once they’ve settled. Scout pulled a face. 

“We have more, yes?” Heavy asked, already knowing the answer. Scout didn’t say anything, leaning the water bottle his way once more. Letting out a sigh, he took a swig. It was cold. Refreshing. 

They reached the peak of the pathway, and entered the woods. A woodpecker could be heard, and some other little buzzings and hoots. Rustling from bushes and trees, towering above. And from Scout’s bag again.

“Granola bar?”

\--

They had reached a river. It wasn’t a very wide one, and the stream wasn’t fast. But you could hear the life from within it, bubbling softly. Heavy packed the fishing rods, the one’s he and Medic had gotten each other for their birthdays. 

Scout’s smile, though obviously trying to stay hidden, was very much giddy. A child. Practically is, compared to everyone else. Not so much as a kid, but in his innocence to joy. Still young enough to learn, to eagerly await for something. Like his sisters did when he taught them how to ride a bike or plant tomatoes. 

Well, anyone can learn, at any age, Heavy supposes. And Scout’s going to learn how to fish. 

After poking the bait into the hook (thanks, Pyro, for digging up worms the night before) Scout casted his line pretty aggressively, but that was expected. A fat fish scurried away. Scout mumbled a  _ crap  _ under his breath.

“Just relax,” Heavy said, casting his. They both sat. Probably should’ve brought blankets, the Earth underneath them was cool and moist. Soft Mother Earth, accepting their stay, “fish will know you want them too much.”

Scout scoffed, but kept his hands steady, “Sure,” he began to talk to the river itself, “ _ hey _ , Mr. Fish! I want you  _ so bad! _ I need ya, baby! I want your fishy ass so  _ ba-a-ad! _ ”

Scout’s laugh echoed into the world. Heavy fought the eyeroll. 

\--

Fishing is a waiting game.

Anyone who knows Scout knows he hates waiting, more than practically anything. Hell, he’d rather take a bullet than wait. He  _ has  _ taken a few instead of waiting. 

But he seems content, waiting, watching the flowing river intently. Shadows swam along, and his eyes would get a little bigger, until they’d muddle around and past his line. Heavy hasn’t caught anything either. Maybe he should’ve brought a book. 

The silence was nice. Nature’s song was sweet in the air, background ambiance. These sounds weren’t anything like Russia’s. It’s weird how different homes have different noises. 

“So, uh, how’re ya?” Scout’s words were awkward, stiff. He was still staring at the river. 

Heavy hates small talk. But, this wasn’t so bad. At least it showed that Scout was trying.

“Good.”

There was a slight tug on Heavy’s line, he could feel it in his fingertips. But, the Russian decided to ignore it. Maybe it would get bored and try Scout’s line instead.

“Saw you get blown to bits yesterday. Di’you respawn okay?”

Ah, yes. Respawning. Such a weird process. The good thing about it: you literally come back to life. The bad: sometimes you come back injured. The process isn’t perfected. But, what is?

“Yes. Some scrapes. Nothing Doktor couldn’t fix,” Heavy said. Another tug on the line, “But am fine now.”

Scout shifted, legs now in the criss-cross-applesauce position. Hands still steady, focused. 

“Good, good.”

The fish  _ finally  _ inched away, towards Scout’s line, right before dodging his completely and going on its merry way. Scout noticed.  _ Dammit.  _

\--

“Are you mad at me?” 

Scout had this way of making questions hold a sort of youthful dejectedness. It reminded Heavy of when he asked his Mother if he could stir the soup, or go make snow angels. Cautious. 

“No. Why?”

Scout’s gaze finally unglued itself from the waters, now onto Heavy. The younger man fumbled for words for a moment. 

“I kept bugging you to do this with me.”

Heavy’s frown lines deepened. No fish bothered to interrupt. 

“You did not bother.” Heavy said. Scout didn’t look convinced of that, turning back to the river. 

The silence slid in again. Heavy wondered if Scout ever skipped stones, or tree swung into a lake, or rowed a boat when he was little. His Mother, from what he heard from her, didn’t seem the type. 

“I wanted to do this. Is nice.” Heavy reassured, leaning a bit. Scout processed it (hopefully) and slowly nodded.

“Okay.” Scout said quietly, a tiny smile formed. 

Just then,  **_Thrash!_ ** A fish snagged itself onto Scout’s hook, jolting and squirming like all Hell. Scout was immediately onto his feet, flailing with the fish.  _ Uh-oh. _

_ “WhatdoIdo?!”  _

Scout continued to move sporadically, reeling in quick, but Heavy made a noise of protest.

“Steady!” Heavy said, motioning, “Reel it in steady. Or fish will break free.”

Scout did as instructed, beginning to reel it in slower. The fish fought, pulling. But Scout was relentless, and at a good pace now, too. After a few short moments of back and forth, Scout caught himself a fish, raising it above. Victorious. 

“ _ Ya-ha!  _ Got ya, asshole!” Scout cheerfully said,  _ sang  _ it practically. Heavy laughed. 

\--

It was nearly nightfall by the time they got back. The sky was a mix of indigos and lavenders, the Sun tucking Herself in. Clouds, once plump and fluffy, were now smeared onto the canvas. The heat was diminishing as well, a cooler feeling replacing it.  _ Ahh _ .

Scout strutted into the base’s kitchen, where Engineer, Medic and Pyro were. Engineer was counting something in the cabinets. Pyro was checking the fridge for some of those fruit drinks they ordered online.

“Engie, we are havin’ fish cakes tonight!” Scout shouted, slamming the fish down onto a table. Medic smirked at the sight. 

“Uh,” Engineer was trying not to chuckle, “one fish won’t make a lot of cakes, but...yeah, we can do that.”

Scout smiled. Pyro made noises of glee.  _ They haven’t had fish in a while! _

Scout and Pyro made their way into the living room, presumably to watch cartoons. Or maybe one of those weird infomercials that played on channel 4. Medic was giving a rather amused looked to Heavy.

“Enjoy your fishing trip?”

Heavy smiled, looking down at the prize. Scout’s victory. 

“Yes.” 

\--

Later that night, after supper was over, and dirty dishes were being attended to, Heavy went to Medic’s lab. They were going to play chess. He knew the doctor wouldn’t be there yet, but waited patiently, greeting Archimedes with a gentle pat. 

When he heard the door open, he was not greeted by a friendly German face, but rather a French one. Salt and pepper hair, obviously well conditioned. And murky eyes. 

It didn’t look friendly. 

Spy entered, cigar dimly lit, puffing from his mouth. Heavy would hate the smell, but it obviously isn’t stale or cheap. Smells expensive, even. His eyes examined Heavy, as if this wasn’t a teammate he’d been fighting alongside with for years. No, it was different. Scowling. The shadows from the hall’s light seemed to flicker about as he came closer.

Heavy wasn’t going to speak first. He gave Archimedes another pat. 

“I heard you and Scout went on a trip today.” Spy finally said, cigar dragged away from his lips. A trail of smoke floated to the ceiling. 

“Yes. Fishing.”

Out of all the things Spy could be known for, his ability to be someone else is his legend. Ironically, he’s shit at masking emotion. But Spy doesn’t know that, starting a slow pace across the room. There’s a dull, yet angry feeling in the air. Malice? Contempt? 

Maybe a bit of sadness. Loneliness.

He doesn’t take another sip of his cigar, no, he just lets it waft around. 

Heavy hates this conversation, which technically isn’t even a conversation. A few moments go by, so he decides to speak up. Get it over with. 

“Is something wrong?”

And Heavy’s already regretting the question, watching Spy blink, eyebrows knitted. Obviously something’s wrong.  _ Obviously,  _ Spy won’t out and say it. He’d rather let it ruminate. Make a home within him, brooding and sterile. He’s inching towards the door now. 

_ Walking out. Typical.  _

“No, of course not,” Spy uttered it, and if you tried, you could hear the rasp curling around the words, “I just hope you both enjoyed yourselves.”

And, just like that, he was gone. 

Heavy hoped Medic would talk his head off, about samples, or limbs or something probably illegal to perform in several countries. Anything to shake off whatever  _ that  _ interaction was. 

\--

Soldier was watching a movie. A war one, with a handsome leading man and plenty of crappy special effects. Begrudgingly, Scout joined him, taking a seat on the floor. There was popcorn, afterall. 

He thought Soldier would talk through it, babbling about the historical inaccuracies, or how  _ he  _ would’ve beheaded the enemy, not tucked into a mudhole, something like that. Oddly enough, he was silent. Not even taking that much popcorn. Scout felt a twinge of guilt with every handful, not really sure why. 

He stayed silent as well. The credits rolled. Half of those actors are probably dead. It’s a pretty old flick.

Scout was about to get up, before Soldier spoke, “How’d you like the movie?”

_ Boring. Annoying. Like every other war movie ever produced. The actor had a painfully nasally voice that Scout tuned out about twenty minutes in.  _

“It was good.”

Soldier smiled, flicking the TV channel. M.A.S.H was on, so the younger man settled himself back down.

This’ll be fine. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! sorry for the shorter chapter this time, i promise i have bigger/longer plans for the next one!!
> 
> enjoy some nice miss pauling + scout bonding :)

“Have you ever told him?” 

Miss Pauling wanted to sneer out a  _ Hello to you too, Spy, _ but instead went for a, “No.”

They both knew what he was on about. His hand ruffled into those locks, nervously so. Miss Pauling was too tired to entertain family drama. 

“Are you sure?”

That got a sigh, a particularly huffier one to get the message across. Paranoia is a sickness, indeed.  _ Wait, isn’t that a Medic line? _

“I’m sure, Spy.”

And, for a second, she thought he’d leave it be. Spy was never on to press on about stuff, afterall. Especially topics so…

Personal.  _ Secrets should stay like that. Secrets.  _ His own words. She remembers the look on his face when the buried document was uncovered, wide eyed and cherry cheeked. God knows how he even managed _ that _ little charade. Probably bribed and smooth talked it all down, the good ol’ fashioned way. 

She remembers going through it, like any old file, briefly scanning, before stopping dead in her tracks. Spotting it. The dirty little secret. 

Funnily enough, it’s not even well kept. Everyone knows. At least the main juicy, meaty part. Everyone except the very core of it all. Him.

It’s a waiting game, Miss Pauling feels. One she hopes, for everyone’s sake, to never to end. 

“Are you  _ sure  _ you’re sure? What if--”

“Now you’re starting to  _ sound _ like him.” Miss Pauling groaned, adjusting her glasses. She’s been meaning to get new ones. Dust and speckles of blood  _ never  _ get out of the glass.

That seemed to stop the pathetic interrogation. So, she walked on, further into their home. Heels clicking. 

“Why are you here?” And she’s sure Spy didn’t mean it to sound rude, but does she  _ need  _ a reason?

She did have one. But  _ still.  _

“Scout called for me.”

And that was that. 

\--

“Scout.”

The young man laid there, sprawled out on his bed. He wasn’t in uniform, instead in some generic t-shirt and sweatpants. It didn’t match, and he looked sort of disheveled. But his smile was all the same; warm, annoying Scout.

“Hey!” he sprang up, sitting now. The bedsheets were a mess, crumbs galore, the fabric clumped up and wrinkly. The room was dark too, you could barely see the posters curling off of the walls. Miss Pauling wondered if he’d like a lamp in here. 

There was an awkward silence. Miss Pauling forced herself not to look at the ground, because she knew she’d grimace at the dirty socks and crushed soda cans. 

“So, uh…” Miss Pauling shuffled into place, “you called?”

And just then, right there, the glint in his eyes surfaced, saying  _ Oh, yeah, I just remembered.  _

His expression quickly turned from realization to sheepish, breaking eye contact. His hand distinctively went to the back of his neck, rubbing. 

“Well, I, uh, wanted to see if you, like,” the words were trailing away from him, getting stuck into his own head, embarrassment quickly seeping in, “wanted to, um, hang out?”

Hang out. 

_ Hang out. _

As if Miss Pauling didn’t have a meaty list to trudge through, as if the migraines weren’t pounding through her skull, as if the days haven’t been melting together, miserably neverending. No breaks. No stops. No breathing room. 

All of her past friends thought she’d become a shut in, or a practicing cat lady, or whatever pops into the minds of outsiders who can’t be informed. So, said friends became shadows, people she remembers. Phantom limbs. She can’t remember the last time she went out. Or saw a movie. Or shared a meal.

And Miss Pauling knows she should be annoyed, tell him that this is stupid and that she needs to get back to work, but...

_ Oh, fuck it.  _

“Fine, but only for a little bit,” she motioned for him to get up, which he did, eagerly so, “and we are  _ not  _ going to Clucky’s.”

“Fair enough.”

\--

They didn’t actually get any food at all. Instead, they drove. Being the brilliant planner that he is, Scout didn’t mention any specific place, nor did Miss Pauling have anything in mind. Maybe driving was the best option. Miss Pauling likes the car she’s been given. It’s sturdy, big. She’s flipped in it more than once and walked out unscathed on all accounts. All of her favorite CDs have a home in the compartments. Being alone in the car can have its perks. The freedom to feel human. Still young. 

But she isn’t alone. She’s with a particularly fidgety man. Though, it feels weird to call him a  _ man _ , per say…

“So, uh, what’s been goin’ on with you?”

Funny. Scout has a way of making everything seem like an insult. The look on his face proves his obliviousness, hand pressed against the window. They were in a rockier part of the area. A lot of formations, built by the harsh summer winds and spring showers over the years. The sky was full of oranges and creams, the sun beginning its journey down. 

“Going on?” 

“Uh, like, how are you?” 

Well, that’s not a question she faces everyday. Unless, of course, it was being used for intimidation, something not to be answered but to be played off. Something used against her.

_ I’m fine. Everything’s fine.  _

But Scout isn’t the type to be outright malicious. And the tone sounded genuine. They hit a small pothole, but Miss Pauling could still feel it in her hands, gripping onto the wheel. 

“Well, other than burying some bodies, filing some fake reports and having more than a dozen other things to do by next week, I’m keepin’ on,” And it sounded whiny, she thought.  _ Whiny and pathetic. _ The car went a little faster, “you?”

“Oh, uh. Pretty much the same.”

A beat of silence. A flock of birds, flying in a triangle shape, hovered above them, squawking. 

“I mean--I  _ know  _ it’s not, like,  _ the same.  _ You do so much, and, uh, don’t get enough credit for it. In my opinion.” 

“Thanks.”

In a way, the awkwardness was sweet. Say what you will about Scout, but he tries. The sun was peaking the last of its shine behind a mountain in the distance. Weird how time goes by, especially when you’re on the roads. 

Miss Pauling put on one of her mixtapes.  _ Man Overboard  _ by Blondie played at half volume, slightly vibrating through the seats. 

“I need to give Soldier a mission.”

She doesn’t know why she says it out loud, but no matter. It’s not like it’s a dirty secret; Soldier likes to keep busy. Be useful. Have purpose. And lately she’s been coming up short with him, forgetting to give him a job. The guilt laid flat in her stomach, beaconing to be acknowledged. 

Scout made a sort of humming sound, head slightly bobbing to the beat, “You should make him the town’s paperboy.”

“I’m serious. I worry about him.”

They’ve been going down a long, thin road. No other cars were out there. Fat cactuses and succulents were seen here and there, along with the occasional  _ holy shit that’s a huge ass bird _ . The moon, though ghostly, was starting to make her appearance. 

“You worry about everything.”

_ My Sharona  _ started to play. Miss Pauling took some pressure off the pedal. 

“Well, can you blame me?” Miss Pauling said more than asked, “No offense, but you guys aren’t the most predictable bunch.”

“Hey, none taken. Unpredictable is good.”

Miss Pauling scoffed, “Yeah, in  _ battles _ . Can’t you guys have, like, a board game night, or something?”

“We do! It just, uh,” Scout looked like he was remembering something quite painful, “never works out that great.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that, imagining Medic threatening to vaporize their livers if he didn’t have a get out of jail card, or Pyro scorching the precious faces of Candyland. Still, the thought of Soldier waiting made her feel wrong. Upset, even. 

“I just hate to think about Soldier all cooped up in there, feeling useless.”

And something resonated, she felt it in Scout. It’s hard for all of them. The cycle of this job, restarting and rebuilding, in and out. You don’t get to marinate in it for too long, because next thing you know, duty calls. A constant. 

Stillness feels like weakness. 

“I could get him to practice shooting cans with me.”

Another song started to play, something with more funk. Miss Pauling couldn’t register what it was, focusing too much on that statement. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? The guy could  _ use _ some practice,  _ believe me. _ ” And he was sporting that smile he does whenever he feels like he’s landed the joke, cocky but also warm, “Plus, his monologues can be something to behold.”

Shared laughter. It was nice. Seemed like Miss Pauling had one less thing to worry about.

\--

They stopped on the side of the road. Miss Pauling wanted to see the stars. She used to study constellations as a child, with her little telescope and notepad. A tiny navigator, watching the twinkles from above. They always fascinated her--how in a million years, they would all be nothing. Everything could change.  _ Will change _ . But the stars forever remain.

“‘S pretty.” Scout said, back laying against the hood, stretching a bit. Miss Pauling stayed on her feet, hands idly playing with themselves. 

“Very.” and for the first time in a long time, Miss Pauling felt like she was breathing. The crisp air flowing into her nose, into her lungs. She turned her gaze back to Scout, who was eyeing the sky, tongue poking out as he focused. 

“Thank you.” She couldn’t say much more. Gratefulness can be quite the embarrassment sometimes. Scout looked back at her. 

“Sure,” Scout said, getting up, brushing his pants down, “this was cool.”

“Yeah.”

They stayed there for a few moments more. Stars twinkling. 

\--

When they finally pulled up near to base, Scout was finishing up his air drumming. Queen was playing as they parked. 

They settled down, speakers now on low. It was the end of their night. The end of Miss Pauling’s break.  _ Shit.  _

Scout’s hand reached for the car door, but hesitated, “Miss Pauling?”

And he sounded cautious, nervous. No more jokes it seemed. 

“We’re friends, right?”

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Did Scout mean for that to sound so sad? He sounded like the kid picked last for kickball. She felt herself let out a sigh, not by her own intention. 

Were they friends? They definitely were coworkers. Well, kinda. She had her job, and he had his. And in doing their jobs, getting the work done, they accomplish the goal. All the dominoes fall. Everything in place. 

But, friends?

Miss Pauling can’t remember what living friendship felt like. She only knows that she had some, a while ago. Practically in another life. Loneliness comes with work, she supposes. Being on your own, doing what has to be done. Nothing to squeeze in. It’s all manageable. 

Or miserable. She doesn’t think about it enough. Can’t. 

But...

_ Friends, huh? _

“Yeah, Scout. We’re friends.”

He smiled softly, finally opening the door, “Maybe you can start callin’ me Jeremy.” 

“I’ll think about it.” Miss Pauling tried not to cringe, the actual name a little too  _ personal _ . Reminds her of a secret.  _ No thanks.  _

And, off Scout went. She waited until he went inside. 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone!! just a heads up: this chapter has descriptions of scars/scarring. 
> 
> also, i hc soldier as a ginger because why not
> 
> hope you enjoy!! :-)

_There’s going to come a time where they will become disillusioned by your eccentricness. And then you’ll be left with a rotten hole, waiting for the next one to show up and get the temporary fix._

Ludwig’s Mother had a way with words. So did his Father, but not as shiny and posh. Moreso buttoned up, always left you hanging on for more. Curt. He supposes he’s grown into both of them a little, weary at that thought sinking in. Are we all just our parents in different hues? _God,_ he wishes he would’ve listened more in Psychology than Anatomy sometimes. 

_You are what you’re told you are._

Weird can have its perks. People seem to be attentive when you do something. And you get away with things most can’t. 

But it’s harder for people to stay. Weird can be useless at times, fickle with conversation and embarrassing in youth. Ludwig’s too old to be embarrassed. Too tired to recoil into the shell. And too much to back down. 

But, there is shame. And shame is embarrassment, only aged. 

Usually, when he first gets into it with people, they stare, wide eyed and mouth pursed. Like they’re getting to the good part of a bad horror flick. He’s okay with gawking. It’s not uncustomary, especially with the things he dives into. He can’t blame them. 

Then there’s Misha. 

Misha never had those eyes, the ones with a sort of _I’m taking a mental note to not talk to you unless absolutely necessary_ tone. He has kind eyes, ones you’d see in the theatre or a park, feeding birds. He listens. 

It’s nice. Having someone _listen_ to you _._

He doesn’t always talk about medical atrocities, y’know. He likes poetry. Documentaries. Art history. Really, _really_ bad puns. 

Not that anyone’s asked about any of that. It’s always _Oh! Why do you have human legs on that chicken!_ Or _My God! You brought that man back from the dead!_

Silly. Humans can just pick one thing about you and run with it. Misha hasn’t, though. He still listens, still comes around. 

Ludwig has a prickling dread. Waiting for him to become disillusioned. 

“Went into town today with Soldier. There was flea market,” Misha greeted Ludwig, who was scribbling down notes that would seem like wordless nonsense to literally everyone else, “Saw this and thought of you.”

In his hand, then onto the table. A bird themed calendar. The front cover bird looks like Archimedes, just a tad fatter. Ludwig _loves_ it, immediately flipping through the months. His fingers feel warm.

“Thank you, Misha,” the words almost come out breathlessly, “this is wonderful.”

Misha smiles. Eyes as gentle as an April breeze. 

Well, one thing’s for sure. Ludwig’s not disillusioned. 

\--

Scarring is common. Better than the gashes, burns and (more-so than they like to think about) obliterations of flesh and bone. Regeneration, the _respawn_. Life, just like that. One moment you’re spilling your guts out onto the dirt and the next it’s over. Begin again. Same shit, same toilet. 

_What fucking gives?_

Some of your scars will fade away, sunkissed and barely noticeable. Scout’s had the most luck out of them with this, little scars on his shoulders accompanying his freckles. A medium one, almost twig-like in thickness, along his right leg. It’s a bit darker, deeper, but nothing he can complain about.

Here and there, peppered onto his torso. On his thighs. Probably some ones on his back. He doesn’t check there, really. 

One day, after a battle, he respawns. No time to check his body, so he doesn’t. Not until night.

It’s _big_. Fresh, tomato red, raised high from the skin. Thick as can be. From one side of his stomach to the other. A gnash. Slice. 

_It’s fucking huge._ Scout feels a few twinges in his chest, then a big drop, _thud_ vibrating within. Hollowness as he stares at the reflection in his bedroom mirror. Fingers wiping the scar, as if it’ll smear away. 

_Maybe it’s just the lighting._

He turns the main light on. The scar somehow looks worse, _deeper, redder, furious._ He flicks it back off, blinking a few times. It’s still there. Instead of screaming, Scout grunts, pushing his shirt back down. 

\--

He’s not good at subtly. Everyone’s in the living room area, except for Heavy and Pyro. They wanted to show the Russain something. A knitting work-in-progress. A little shared hobby. 

“Do you guys know who killed me today?” He says it exactly how he does when his nerves are bad, quick and sharp. Demoman’s eyebrow goes up. Him, Sniper and Engineer are playing cards. Blackjack. 

“Nah, mate.” Sniper replies, gaze still locked into the game. Engineer scratches his neck with his free hand. The Australian (or should we say New Zealander?) takes a peek at his cards. _It ain’t cheating if it’s easy,_ afterall. 

“Y’sure?” Scout’s words are meshing together, fingers picking at the nails, A bad habit, his Mother used to say. 

“Why?” Demoman asked. The game was beginning to get more and more unintresting, especially since this is the fifth time they had to redo it. Sniper doesn’t like playing nice. 

Why. _Why?_ So he can get the fucker that gave him _this thing_ on his body forever. So he can make sure they get the same. Get it worse. Get _Hell._ Make them regret waking up. 

“ _Uh_ ,” it drags out of Scout’s mouth. _Reason, reason, reason,_ ”because I wanna get the guy tomorrow?”

Well, it’s honest, at least. Demoman doesn’t take surface answers, unfortunately. Apparently, Engineer doesn’t either. 

“Shouldn’t you wanna get ‘em all?” Engineer’s cards are on the table. So are Demoman’s. 

“Well, _yeah_ , but, I--”

“Are we _playing_ _or not?!_ ” Sniper barked at the two men seated. _He was going to win this round as well!_ Both gave him a look. Maybe Soldier would play Go Fish. Looking over, he sees the man slumped over on the couch, out cold. He grumbles to himself. 

“Somethin’ happen today, lad?” Demoman asks, and _of course_ they have to go prodding. He’s waiting for the Engineer to give him one of those thoughtful looks. _You can say something, son_ . Yadda- _fuckin’_ -yadda. 

“Uh, I guess. I died.”

“We all do. Happens to the best of us.” Engineer pipes up. Probably meant to sound comforting. 

“Yeah, I know that, genius.” 

Silence. Scout wishes he didn’t bring it up. He should’ve asked Miss Pauling to check today’s stats and video. With the impending headache, he can _feel_ it. Sitting on him, settled in. Taunting. _I’m here forever, asshole!_ It makes his hands feel twitchy, curling into fists without hesitation, the anger no longer simmering, but bubbling up. Ready. 

They all were staring at him now. Waiting. He didn’t look back, instead at the floor. His socks. 

“I got this--” Scout’s voice is thick in his throat, timid almost, “I got this nasty scar. From a kill.”

Demoman seemed to let out a breath of relief. _What?_

“You had me worried something personal happened.”

And Scout feels the bubbling turn into a burst, a disgusted noise coming out. That actually hurt, he must admit. Felt like turning around, calling it a night. But he stayed, glues down it seemed. Seething now. Seething always.

“It _is_ personal.”

They all looked…

Confused? Was that it? All wrinkled foreheads and knitted brows. Sniper wasn’t paying all that much attention. Maybe he was playing Blackjack with himself, in his own little mind. Engineer looked curious. Demoman looked worried. _Great._

“I-- _just--!”_ Scout lifted his shirt in a rough motion, high enough to cover his face, “Look at it!”

All went quiet. 

He knew it was bad. He _knew_ it. Bursting turned into the remnants, the residue. What was left of anger? Shame, bitter in the veins. Pumping rhythmically underneath the scar. 

“Scout--”

But Demoman didn’t get to finish whatever speech he had planned for him, or whatever flowery shit this supposed found family just _loved_ pulling at the most weak of moments. Scout was tired before, but now the swarming thoughts, the images of a monstrous, _ugly_ scar on him for the rest of his life (well, lives) downright exhausted his body, ache ringing in the bones. 

He needed his bed. Off he went, snarling a _“Fucking forget it.”_

\--

Scout wasn’t asleep. Face down in the pillow. It was far too hot to be smothered by the covers, but fuck it. Scout liked the weight of it all on him, surrounded by heat. Hopefully, he’d pass out soon. Not a thought more to be conceived. 

He can’t get that silence out of his head. Can’t get that active imagination of his to be put down, the scene of their horror struck faces, saturated with pity and _repulsion_. 

_It’s so bad. It’s so bad. It’s so fucking bad._

Scout feels like a pathetic child. _He’s a killer, goddammit._

He didn’t hear the door open, but somehow knew someone came in. Lifting his head, he saw him. Demoman. The younger man didn’t feel like speaking, head falling back onto the pillow. But he shifted to his side. 

“You okay?”

Scout didn’t make so much as a _mmph_ or a _urrhg_. From the hallway’s light leaking in, he could see Demoman’s frown deepen. Then, he lifted his shirt, all the way up. 

There was a scar. Long and wide, surrounded by other little scars. Looked like a famous river on a map. Etched from right under his nipple, all the way down his torso. It looked deep. But it was faded, a husk. Still undoubtedly _there,_ but…

It wasn’t a shock. Or a pit in Scout’s throat. Demoman covered it back up again. 

“I nearly pissed m’self when I saw it at first,” the Scottish man chuckled, “Soldier told me it looked brave. Made me feel better about it.”

Brave. Huh. Scout could take a liking to that. Fighting can be brave, he’s heard. Fearlessness can be brave, sure. 

_Brave._

Demoman’s frown was gone, replaced with a certain familiar warmth. One that says _you’re fine, stop worrying about this shit_. Scout tries to swallow the wordless advice, watching Demonan exit. 

Sleep comes, eventually. Scout doesn’t remember the drift. 

\--

Engineer hasn’t been bothered all day, which was a little concerning. That means everyone’s off to their own devices, whatever that could be. _Good God._ He just hopes everyone shows up for dinner.

Tinkering. That’s what Medic said he does. He tinkers. Engineer’s hands hate idleness, fiddling, fidgeting. Constantly on something. A few months ago, he created these little disks that can play your music in the car for you. Gifted them to Miss Pauling, who said they shouldn’t open this to the public yet.

Right this second, his hands were on some metal that he’s shaping with heat. Bending at will. It’s kinda cool. He remembers welding a little in his youth. Creating new things excited him, made Engineer feel like _him_. Finally, a recognized sound. The workshop door opening. Someone’s decided to bother. 

Hard, heavy boots. Soldier.

“Hey there, Soldier.” Engineer greets out without looking. He’s gotta twist this metal _just_ right to make it lock into place with the other piece. 

“I have something to ask you.”

Well, now. A request. He’s all ears, perking up to meet the other man’s gaze. Unusually, Soldier doesn’t have his cap on, ginger buzz hitting the lights and baby green eyes shining. _Hm._ Engineer decided not to comment on the uncommon situation. 

“What can I do ya for?”

Soldier took out his left hearing aid, holding it up, “I need you to turn down the sound on these things.”

_Oh, well,_ “It’s volume is so crisp because, on the battlefield, you need to be able to hear every--”

“It hurts.”

Oh. Well, they can’t have that, now can they?

“Can you fix them?” Soldier asks, taking the other one out. Engineer is only now noticing his grimace. _How long has that face been showing up?_

He nodded, saying a quick, “‘Course I can, no problem.”

Soldier leaves, not with a smile, but the grimace faded away. Hopefully not momentarily. 

\--

It’s actually a problem to fix. These hearing aids were made from scratch, with some material not even in any other store or scientists lap. Intricate design, careful planning and _powerful_ results. _They shouldn’t hurt,_ Engineer thought. So, he tested how the sound waves hit them. Everything looked fine. Better than fine. His invention was still good. 

_They shouldn’t hurt._ Engineer might be fixated on that more so than he’d like to admit. How long have they been uncomfortable for him? How much does it hurt? What kind of hurt: an ache? Sting? Burn? Should he get checked out by Medic?

Instead of working on it, he seeks out Soldier. The hearing aids are in his pocket. 

\--

“How much does it hurt?” Engineer greets Soldier with that after finding him on the upper patio. Soldier’s nearly deaf, but still has a little hearing left in him. Plus, the man can read lips. He repeats it a little slower, just in case. 

“Uh- _hh…_ ” Is Soldier’s only response, bless him.

“Scale of one to ten?”

Soldier’s thinking, shuffling into place. Arms still lazily hanging from the wooden balcony. It’s nearly sunset. _Shit, people are probably hungry by now._

“I don’t know. It just hurts.”

Hm. Not any answer he didn’t already know. 

“How does it hurt?”

Another pause of silence. Engineer can feel the hearing aids in his pocket, begging for him to just get the work done. 

“I don’t _know._ ” And Soldier says it simply, but with a little more emphasis, “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

_I only asked three_ , Engineer wants to say, but Soldier’s still speaking, “Can you fix them?”

“Yes, Soldier, of cou--”

“Because it’s...It’s okay if you can’t.”

“I _can._ I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” 

Maybe Engineer said that with a little too much agitation on his face, because now Soldier’s looking at him like he did something wrong, which he _didn’t_ . He knows he didn’t. He _just…_

Engineer should’ve just stayed in the workshop room. Fixed the hearing aids. Because now it’s sinking in that dinnertime is _definitely_ fast approaching, and the only thing more annoying than a regular Scout is a hungry one. 

“Noises can be a lot.” Soldier says it awkwardly, words stiff, like they were scared to come out, “It’s too much for me.” That probably _was_ hard to say, knowing Soldier. He hardly complains at a gaping flesh wound. Something shifts inside Engineer. 

Okay. _Okay._

“I’ll be sure to turn down the sensitivity, alright?”

“Okay. Thank you.” Soldier’s expression still seems unsure. 

“No need.” Engineer smiles, patting him on the shoulder. And, off he goes. Dinner can wait a little longer, he decides. 

He’s gotta get something done. Something good, for a friend. 


End file.
